we are here
rowing in gently near to the shore
and even now you can see
the peaks, mountains and the valleys
and the giant pines and willow
and the embracing peace, the pervasive quiet...
you see a lone figure there, enjoying a walk;
there is a little village there of huts
whose humble folk will serve you in all ways
though you will never meet them...
the guardians in the longhouse
there past the peaks
will see to all your needs
and you shall not want anything in creature comforts...
you shall be on land shortly and you will be escorted to the longhouse
and the guardians there will see to your walks
and to ensure the villagers do not meet you...
the guardians will speak of these things
and arrange these things...
yes, I know of that matter...and I can speak of it...
they will provide you with paper and ink and brushes...
but all you produce will be stored in the library there in the longhouse...
you may peruse, but you may not bring the works away...
even your works...all you create is no longer yours...
I hear you are not to leave the longhouse compounds unattended...
the guardians will speak to you of these matters...
there will be solitude
there will be respect
they will look to your every need
but as you know
none of your kind brought here
ever returns...
so then I wish you days of gentleness
and peace and quiet to your last days here...
we are come very near
and between the rocks there we shall stop and you shall disembark...

I should have smiled
when I entered,
dusted like a corner table
with flakes of Maine ash:
grandiose visions of what
I sought to be.
Passing long marble rows;
walking briskly to comfort;
ushered in by the chill.
Neighbors might see me,
but I am cold,
so I do not smile.

In the longhouse,
they celebrate man's
dominion over time.
They pluck paper crafts
by their roots,
and fashion a little gift for me.
Oh, I am merry inside,
singing of renewal,
but I'm tired,
so I do not smile.

In open theater,
upon the carbonite stage,
I find myself
balancing on a tightrope,
while the audience roars and jeers.
I could play their games,
and surely they'd accommodate,
but I am bare,
so I do not smile.

Then, I'm out in the quarry,
cutting stone into thirds;
sweating from the hot sun.
A family sits across the way --
see how they laugh with one another!
If I were born
under a different sign,
I might join them;
but as this is my duty,
I do not smile.

No, I'll walk in circles
like the rest.
I'll make certain
the boilers are filled,
without time
for green-speckled wishes,
or chatting with friends,
old and new:
It's up and down
the stairs with you!
...To see that crescent
creeping through
the winter sky
would do my heart well....
There it is,
alight on the trail!
Yet still I do not smile.

On the road to destiny,
stuck behind two sisters on horseback....
If I were free,
I would slow
to hear their pleasant conversation,
but as I'm in a hurry,
I spur my horse onward,
my eyes set straight ahead;
my cloak whips as I pass,
and I do not smile.

At the great meeting of chieftains,
we are all
seated in the hall.
I feel the weight
of approaching weeks,
and the cold desert river
that awaits.
My face rises and falls
like the tide on the Aral Sea.
In soft surprise,
I feel a presence behind me.
Surrounded by circling vultures....
No wonder I hesitate
to expose my flesh.
Sands penetrate my eyelids.
I take a quick glimpse,
but I am watched,
so I do not smile.

Soon, I come upon an oasis.
The water soothes
my parched throat,
and I,
a forager,
dismount.
A hunting party makes camp
on the opposite bank.
I peer out through the shrubs....
Only a simple request
would rescue me,
but I am principled,
so I do not smile.

Watching fish jump by the water,
I long for that fading mornglow,
in tattered pots
and cairns,
by shuttered blinds,
where my emotions were kept.
All my love
is cradled in the shade.
Time moves on with haste,
and I do not smile.

At day's end,
I gather my belongings.
I rush to climb the peaks,
that I might meet her on the path.
Again, my heart lifts!
Her face appears in the distance.
With joy, I walk close to her.
I smile a little,
but does she notice?
How can one day's expression
erase those months of melancholy?
Now, my whole body forces a sigh;
I listen quietly to Otemoyan,
and I do not smile.

Perched quietly above the clouds atop the great mountain the rainmaker gazed down upon his village. The crops were young and needed rain badly lest they perish in the blazing summer sun that was soon to come. Thinking back upon the great chief who preceded him, the rainmaker remembered the days of feast, but more sharply engraved across his worried brow was the memory of the great famines and the pain they brought to the families.
  It seemed the great chief before him could create rain clouds from the swirling dust devils that encircled the homes in the village. There were many glorious days when the rains would fall, and the rivers would flow full. But the rivers would only to run through the valley in torrents and wash out to sea, very little to be soaked up by the crops.
“How can I ever be a good rainmaker”, thought the young chief, I will never make the rains come as much as the great one before me, and even what rain I can coax out of the great rain gods, it will only wash away, and most of it will never feed the thirsty crops. For it takes scores of great storms to give the hard ground enough soaking to make it through the heated summer.
Oh great one, give me wisdom and grant me your gift of the rainmaker.
As the evening approached, the young rainmaker danced atop the mountain and shook his fists towards the sky, silhouetted against the full spring moon. On through the night he chanted, prayed and danced. At dawn a vision came to him from the great spirit... “My son, only with age and experience will the rains come for you as they did for me. You have the gift of the rainmaker, I have already given that to you...but it takes time to for this to develop.
In your prayers you have also asked for wisdom.... So heed my words. Teach your people how to capture the rain, how to channel its energy and to cherish each drop so that it may best serve the harvests we need to survive. Be crafty like the fox, and catch the rain”.
As the young chief ran down the mountain, he was filled with great inspirations, ideas and plans on how to carry out his ambitious charge. We will build great canals and basins to hold and distribute the rain, we will built shade structures to shade the rain basins from the sun, we will recycle the rain once it has passed through the fields and use it to water our livestock, we will nurture the small amounts of rain that I can bring and perhaps we will all prosper from our wisdom.
That night the young chief gathered his village elders to explain his plan.
“What is wrong with you!” exclaimed one of the most elder.... “Why can you not make it rain like before ?” we were happy then, and there was no talk of such work and discipline !! Let us be to tend to our hobbies and leisure.... You are the rainmaker, go make rain !!!”
“I am only blessed with but a little rainmaking power” explained the young chief... “But I have been given wisdom to share with you”.
Up stood another elder...”All this talk of wisdom and sacrifice, surely we must be granted more harvest shares for such an effort” “
"I cannot promise more harvest shares now my friend, not until we know our harvest” said the young chief. “
“We have many other endeavors to occupy our days than to make sacrifices because you are such a pitiful rainmaker... I am to built a great new longhouse this year, I have no time build such a rain catching system” said another. “We will need the crop harvest to be great this fall, I give much food to the needy ones who live in the village over in the next valley and will need to feed their large families come fall !” said another elder. “This just won’t work” chimed in another elder, I am to go on great journeys throughout this summer, and I need the crops to be bountiful this fall to fill my silos. “ GO MAKE RAIN !!
The dejected young chief slowly climbed back up the mountain, the weight of the harvest seemed heavy on his shoulders. If only they would listen to the wisdom that the great chief passed down to me. If only I could make them understand.
Then as the young chief looked up the trail, a beautiful princess warrior appeared before him. Do not fear my love, we will find a way to make them understand. Come with me, we will craft a plan.....

There is one image that comes before all others, taken a long time ago and thousands of miles from here. And there is the memory tied to it, buried so deeply and so diligently as to have almost faded altogether until now. Should the entire construct of my world, my very soul, come crashing down in some unforseen horror, I will still be who I was in that image. I was given a blanket and a head dress handed down through generations, invited by people I'd never met, to be part of a sacred circle with Tlingit families in a language I didn't know, to a tune I had never heard. In a longhouse far away, I danced with them, and was alive. I was five years old.

This was us,
Back before the world turned to ****,
Before high school invaded and told us
We probably wouldn't ever be happy,
Back before that long cold November,
In the days we were sure she'd come home,
When we thought everything would be fine;
Before the sickness claimed another
To come and take her place in the ranks of the dead.

No. This was the day when
We placed chains of daisies on our heads
And declared ourselves the kings and queens over everything,
Said we would rove the world over,
Then raced, screaming, into the Puget Sound,
And laughed as the freezing salt flooded our lungs;
The day we lay in the firelight and toasted Starbursts
And let our laughter loose to join with the smoke and float
Up through the hole in the roof of the longhouse to mingle forever
With the naked San Juan summer.

This was us.
Back then, we could've lived forever.

The stars live
seen from my bed
very deep
inside the window frame

Nice and cool you lie next to me
sleeping satisfied
my skin burns
where I miss you

in this longhouse, where we
only dared to make love
restrainedly, not used
to hear it from others

The rain rustles
that warm pleasure
of the children and for us
if there had been no neighbours

who would be ashamed
so we did it quietly
like the lash mites
when they mate